


But One Doesn't Say it

by Bumblebeebats (Mayasynth)



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: 'Snufkin is mortified by the idea that people might think he has FEELINGS', M/M, Napping in meadows etc. etc. all that sappy shit, Newsflash Snufkin: everyone been knew, Pining, Unbelievably contrived excuses to hold hands, internalized homophobia?? i guess? or you could just read it as, oh and also how could i forget: Snufkin has a tail bc i say so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:29:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayasynth/pseuds/Bumblebeebats
Summary: Moomin had once found a pair of magnets in Moominpappa’s old adventuring gear. He’d played with them for hours, fascinated by the way in which they pulled closer or pushed away depending on which way they turned. There was no in-between, no middle ground, no comfortable small distance at which they could sit without pushing apart or snapping together.Snufkin was a lot like that, he found.((In which Snufkin pines, and Moomin tries to figure out why he refuses to hold hands when anyone else is around.))





	1. In a golden summer field / I watch you fall asleep

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's gay and obsessed with a new children's cartoon?! It's cha'boi
> 
> Anyway so this is set the summer after S1 of the Moominvalley TV show, and based solely off that and whatever random scraps of canon I've picked up around Tumblr. So if anything seems horribly ooc or different from the books/comics/anime, sorry :p

Even despite his midwinter adventure, Moomin woke up early.

Not too early, mind you — just a couple of days, judging by the crisp chill to the air when he opened up the window to look outside. The world was a picture of green and white and blue, every color made sharp and bright by the spring-time sun, and Moomin might have taken a moment to appreciate the prettiness of it all if he wasn’t so busy being annoyed. 

Woken up early _again._ It would be days before everyone else got up — days spent creeping around Moominhouse by himself, days spent eating pine needles and wishing for Moominmamma’s cooking, and days and _days_ before Snufkin arrived, for he never arrived right at the start of spring. Moomin sighed bitterly and rested his head upon his hands as he gazed out at the fluffy white clouds skidding across the sky, at the thin wisp of smoke rising up from the edge of the forest, at the leaves of the distant trees waving in the breeze….

Now, wait a minute. 

Moomin leaned so far out the window he was in danger of falling out. Yes, that was _definitely_ campfire smoke! And if he looked very closely, down by the stream in the shadow of the trees where Snufkin liked to camp, there was something there — something small and green and triangular. 

He was yelling Snufkin’s name before he was even halfway down the rope ladder. 

By the time he really was in yelling distance, Moomin was so out of breath he could barely speak at all. He lurched over to where Snufkin sat at the edge of the river polishing his harmonica, and promptly collapsed upon the grass.

“ _Snufkin,”_ he wheezed. 

“Hello, Moomintroll,” Snufkin said pleasantly. “You’re early. I didn’t expect you to wake up for a day or two.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he panted, and propped his snout up on his hands. “I didn’t expect to see you yet either!”

“Yes — terrible weather in the South. Lots of storms. Decided to come back a bit early.” Snufkin picked up his hat, which had been sitting beside him on the ground, and wrung it out over the river. A frankly ridiculous amount of water came out.

“Wow,” Moomin breathed. “It rained that much?”

“What? Oh —” Snufkin inspected his hat, then shoved it back on his head with a _squelch._ “No, I just dropped it in the river.”

There was a pause, and then Moomin began to giggle. 

“What?” Snufkin asked, but that just made him giggle all the more, until he had to bury his head in his arms to stifle them. 

“Nothing!” he said finally, lifting his head up on his paws again and flashing Snufkin a grin. “I’m just glad to see you, is all.”

For a moment, Snufkin simply blinked. A gentle spring breeze caught his hair. Was it just Moomin’s imagination, or was his face a little pinker than usual? Perhaps he’d caught some sun in the South. 

But before Moomin could look any closer, Snufkin pulled the brim of his hat down and turned away to look out across the stream — but not before Moomin caught the smile that played across his face. 

“I’ve missed you too, Moomintroll,” he said softly.

* * *

The next few days were a lonely sort. Not a bad sort of loneliness, of course — the one that most people think of — but Snufkin’s own particular brand of loneliness, which he seemed to carry with him everywhere he went. It was a soft, bittersweet sort of feeling, like the quiet of an autumn day, or the last golden ray of sunshine before the sun sets. You couldn’t forget, while you were with Snufkin, that you were only borrowing his company — and so Moomin drank in every moment of it while it lasted. 

And then the rest of Moominhouse woke up. 

This wasn’t a bad sort of thing either — Moomin adored his family, and it was nice to have someone else to keep him company in the evenings besides the distant sight of Snufkin’s campfire through the window. The only bad thing was, of course — 

“Where are you going?”

Moomin scowled and turned around, one hand still on the handle of the front door. Little My sat at the kitchen table, doing… _something._ Moomin wasn’t sure exactly what that something was, only that it involved water and pastry flour and a very large bowl. Moominmamma sat next to her with the same ingredients, though whatever she was making looked far more edible. 

“Going to see Snufkin.”

Little My snorted. “He can't be back yet, it’s only the first day of spring.”

Moomin put an indignant hand on his hip. “Yes he can! I mean — yes he is! He arrived a few days ago.”

Little My’s eyes narrowed suddenly. Grinning, she thrust her hands into the bowl of floury gloop in front of her, which made a truly disgustingsound. “ _Oh_ — so it’s just been you two, has it? Hanging about _all alone_?”

“Oh, _shush_ ,” said Moominmamma, though Moomin couldn’t fathom why. 

“Yes,” he said firmly, opening the door. “And we’re off to hang about some more now — _alone.”_

Moomin could hear her cackling all the way down the gravel path.

* * * 

That afternoon, after Snufkin had caught enough fish for his dinner and stowed away his fishing pole in his tent, they went down to the meadow over the hill, the one with the softest grass and the prettiest birdsong that flooded with poppies each June. For a long and lazy while, Moomin lay on his back with his head upon his arms as Snufkin sat beside him, regaling him with tales of his winter travels. Well — perhaps ‘regaling’ was a bit too strong a word, for Snufkin talked about his travels in the same way he talked about anything else: slowly, in a round-about fashion, and only with a great deal of prompting.

After a while, Moomin grew too drowsy to keep asking questions, and so they fell into a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the singing of birds and the  _swish-swish_ of the wind in the grass. And then, just as Moomin had been about to doze off completely, he heard Snufkin give a faint sigh — and opened his eyes to see his friend yawn, take off his hat, and curl up on the ground with his head upon Moomin’s leg. 

Quite without meaning to, Moomin clutched a hand to his chest as it skipped a beat. He loved it when Snufkin slept like this — like a cat in the sun, curled up tighter than a Swiss roll. A moment later, Snufkin gave another wide yawn, showing off his pointed teeth, and stretched out until he was completely draped across Moomin’s legs. Moomin grinned stupidly and shut his eyes again, settling back down to sleep again. He’d forgotten how strangely heavy Snufkin was despite his spindly-looking body — how warm he was, how his hair shone in sun, how cozy it felt to nap like this, tangled up together in the tall grass.... 

“Moomintroll!”

Moomin was woken just as much by the sudden absence of Snufkin’s weight from his legs as he was by Little My’s yelling. By the time he had even opened his eyes, Snufkin was standing up and peering out over the grass. Moomin groaned. 

“Little My! I thought I told you we wanted to be _alone!"_

Snufkin’s head snapped around. “You what?”

“It's not my fault. Moominmamma’s made pastries, and she _insisted_ that I come and tell you,” she said, sounding exceptionally bored. “Sniff’s over, and you know how he is with food, so if you don’t come back now you won’t get any.”

“I don’t care!” Moomin called back, which wasn’t entirely true — he did very much want some pastries, but not nearly as much as he wanted to return to his and Snufkin’s excellent nap. “We’ll be back later!”

Little My’s grumbling faded as she left the meadow, and Moomin breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well then — shall we get back to napping?” he said cheerfully. He patted his leg, where Snufkin’s head had been just a few minutes before, like you might to encourage a cat to sit on your lap. 

Snufkin gave Moomin a long, silent, and completely incomprehensible look. The breeze blew. Moomin rubbed the back of his neck, feeling as though he’d made some horrible mistake — though he wasn’t quite sure what it was.

Snufkin picked up his hat from the ground and stuck it back on his head. “No, thank you. I have to go pick mushrooms for dinner.”

“Oh — shall I come with you?” Moomin asked eagerly.

“It’s alright. I can manage on my own,” he said, which was not what Moomin had been asking — but before Moomin’s ears could even begin to droop, he was gone, slipping into the trees at the edge of the meadow. 


	2. But when you put your hands in my hands / You speak a language only us can understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. The chapter titles are all lyrics from the official Moomin Soundtrack, which - if you haven't listened to it already - is bangin.

Moomin had once found a pair of magnets in Moominpappa’s old adventuring gear. He’d played with them for hours, fascinated by the way in which they pulled closer or pushed away depending on which way they turned. There was no in-between, no middle ground, no comfortable small distance at which they could sit without pushing apart or snapping together. 

Snufkin was a lot like that, he found.

Exhibit A: That Tuesday, Snufkin had come over for lunch, and asked Moomin to pass the salt. As Moomin handed him the shaker, one of his fingers had brushed Snufkin’s, and Snufkin had jumped like he’d just been bitten by something under the table. (Then again, perhaps he _had —_ that was Little My for you.)

Exhibit B: The next day, Snufkin had come over to see some of Moomin’s drawings, and sat so close to him on the bed that Moomin nearly had trouble flipping the pages of his sketchbook, their arms were pressed so closely together. When Moominmamma knocked at the door to bring them snacks, however, Snufkin had leapt up to take the tray from her — and sat down again two feet farther away. 

Exhibit C: The next day after that, the two of them had sat together on the bridge as Snufkin fished, enough space between them for a whole other troll to sit down if they wished. Experimentally, Moomin had flicked his tail so that it lay across Snufkin’s, and then twined their ends together. Snufkin had stopped dead in the middle of reeling in his line, stiff as a board. Then, a few minutes later, he’d leaned across Moomin to point out an interesting bird in the brush — and when he’d leaned back, their knees were pressed up against each other like books on a shelf. 

In the Moominhouse, with its narrow staircases and cozy little rooms, one grew used to bumping elbows and hips and knees. He had learned to tell when someone wanted to be alone, or when someone wanted a hug or a hand held or a kiss on the forehead (in the case of Snorkmaiden, _always,_ and in the case of Little My, _never_ ). But with Snufkin… 

With Snufkin, it was different. Moomin supposed he simply wasn’t used to this silent language the rest of them spoke, growing up as he did all alone in the forest. Moomin could never tell whether he wanted a hug, or wanted to be left alone, or wanted someone to twine their tail in his. He was trying to learn Snufkin’s language, but it was a difficult one. 

Perhaps, he thought, all mumriks were this way. Or perhaps it was something he had inherited from his father and mother. It might help, Moomin thought, if he had a chance to watch the Mymble and her children, or the Joxter and — well, whoever else the Joxter was friends with. 

Pity they came to visit so rarely. It might be months, or even years, before Moomin saw them again.

* * *

Snufkin realized the instant he set foot on the porch of Moominhouse that something was wrong.

He wasn’t sure what it was at first — the noise, possibly, or the way the closed curtains seemed to twitch as he walked up to the house. It was only after he’d knocked on the door and looked down that he noticed all the muddy footprints on the porch.

Twenty, thirty, maybe even _forty_ tiny muddy footprints. 

The door burst open. Something large and white and fluffy launched itself upon him, nearly knocking him down the stairs.

“ _Snufkin!_ Oh Snufkin, heavens above, _help me!_ ”

Snufkin hastily peeled Moomin off him and looked over his shoulder into the house to see — 

_Oh dear._ All over the room, tiny faces bearing mischievous grins began to pop out from under the table, behind the furniture, inside the wardrobe….

“We’re playing hide and seek,” said one of the Mymble’s children. Something so small had no right to sound so menacing. 

“Ah,” said Snufkin. “Well, then — we'll just go and hide.” 

And with that, he grabbed Moomin’s arm and ran.

The children chased after them, but Snufkin was quick. He dragged Moomin deep into the woods and off the main path, to a little cave he’d discovered two summers ago. It was a very small cave — more of a hollow, really — but nearly invisible from the outside, hidden by a fallen tree. 

“Do you think they’re still chasing us?” panted Moomin as Snufkin stood in the entrance, straining his ears for any sounds. Abruptly, Snufkin realized that at some point during their flight through the forest, his grip had slid down Moomin's arm — and he now held Moomin's hand instead. He let go at once, willing his face not to turn pink as it always did, and retreated further into the cave to sit down.

“No,” he said, digging out his pipe. “I don’t think so. This is a good hiding spot.”

“Oh! You’ve used it before?”

“Once or twice. Hiding from the rain.” He lit his pipe and took a few experimental puffs — then grinned. “And the law.”

Moomin giggled, and _oh, fiddlesticks_ — that sound, that face he made, never failed to make Snufkin’s heart feel as if it was made of sweet molasses. He tugged down the brim of his hat and leaned back against the cave wall. 

“Thank you for saving me,” Moomin sighed as he sat down beside him. “I just couldn’t take it anymore! How do they have the energy to be so loud and annoying _all day long?”_

Snufkin chewed on the end of his pipe. “Yes… my siblings can be a lot to deal with.”

Moomin’s eyes widened. “ _Oh —_ that’s right! I’m so sorry, I keep forgetting they’re all your brothers and sisters.”

“ _Half-_ brothers and sisters,” Snufkin amended. “And it’s quite alright."

It’s hard to believe sometimes. You’re so quiet and they’re so —” He waved his arms about, seemingly at a loss for words. “Were you ever like them when you were younger?”

Snufkin considered this for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. It’s hard to say though, because I don’t really have anyone to ask what I was like as a child. I was alone, mostly.”

They sat in silent contemplation for a moment. Outside, the wind gusted and the leaves whispered, and Snufkin was just thinking that there would probably be a storm later when he froze dead still — because the tip of Moomin’s tail had just twined around his. He was glad for the dark of the cave, for his eyes went instantly as wide as saucers and his face as red as beets. 

“I can’t imagine what it must have been like, growing up without a family,” Moomin said softly, casually, as if Snufkin wasn’t in the process of dying immediately next to him. 

_Painful,_ Snufkin thought. _But not nearly so much as this._

“Oh!” Moomin sat up. “I nearly forgot. We’re having a big birthday dinner tomorrow evening for Moominmamma. That’s the whole reason the Mymble came to visit, apparently. Would you like to come? That is —” he added hastily, “if it wouldn’t be too odd, with your mother and everyone there.”

_Your mother._ Snufkin’s stomach gave an entirely different sort of twist from the one it had given just a few moments before. He’d never really thought of the Mymble as his mother — just as _Mymble._ It felt odd either way, honestly. What did you call someone who wasn't quite family, and wasn't quite a stranger, but something in between?

It would indeed be odd, having her there. But Moomin was looking at him with such wide, hopeful eyes, and his tail was curled so closely around his, that in that moment Snufkin would have done anything at all for Moomin, if it meant seeing that smile of his again.

“Alright, Moomintroll,” he said. “I’ll come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you all to know that Snufkin here is at least 80% inspired by my cat, who is the clingiest bitch imaginable, but only when no one else is around. If anyone else in my family is in the room, the sheer EMBARRASSMENT of being cuddled is too much for her. 
> 
> That is all.


	3. Sometimes you only want to hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs evil hands together* And now, for some angst. 
> 
> Minor CW: sensory overload/anxiety attacks.

Snufkin arrived late to the party. He had never been very good at telling time; he could always tell how long it would be until sunset, or how many days were left of summer, or how long a spell of rain would last, but never in such mundane measurements as _hours._ Instead, he measured time in moments — by fish caught, by the phases of the moon. Moomin joked occasionally about getting him a pocketwatch, but he must have known he’d never use it. And so, when Moomin had told him the party would start that evening at six o’clock, Snufkin had known at once that that meant it wasn’t terribly important if he arrived on time or not — otherwise, Moomin would have simply come and fetched him himself. 

“Snufkin!” Moomin cried the moment he spotted him hovering uncertainly at the edge of the party, and beckoned him over to where he and Sniff sat finishing off a vast plate of cakes and pastries. Snufkin had missed dinner, by the looks of it; all across the lawn (for there wasn’t enough space for everyone to eat in Moominhouse itself) stood a number of differently-shaped tables covered with mismatched tablecloths, laden with dirty dishes and nearly-gone plates of desserts. Over in the vegetable patch, Moominmamma showed off her new rainbow peas to Snorkmaiden and the Mymble, while the Mymble’s many children ran to and fro about the garden. 

“How has the party been so far?” asked Snufkin as he sat down and snatched the last miniature chocolate cake from the tray, just as Sniff began to reach for it. Sniff scowled. “Sorry I’m a bit late.”

Moomin waved a hand. “Oh, it’s been fun! Moominpappa nearly lit his hat on fire trying to light the candles, and the Mymble brought her violin so we could have some music later —”

At that moment, they were interrupted by a booming voice from behind them, in the direction of the house. 

“Darling! Look who I found trying to break into our house again!”

Snufkin turned around, cake halfway to his mouth — and froze. 

He dropped the cake.

The Joxter stood at the other end of the garden, looking confused and mildly alarmed as Moominpappa threw a jovial arm around his shoulder and shepherded him forward onto the lawn. He looked just the same as the last few fleeting times Snufkin had seen him — that is to say, like a darker-haired, scruffier version of Snufkin — even down to his battered old hat. 

At once, Snufkin pulled his own hat down over his ears and hissed through his teeth, turning away from the scene. Moomin began to fret in a charmingly Moominmamma-like way, the picture of concern. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, leaning over. “Do you want to go?”

“You just dropped that cake right on the floor,” said Sniff.

“No _,_ I just —” Snufkin chewed the side of his lip with one pointed tooth. “He’ll want to _talk to me.”_

“And you don’t want to? You don’t have to talk to him, you know, if you don’t —”

“Right on the floor!” Sniff picked up the cake in question, cradling it in his hands like it was a dead baby bird. “If you didn’t want it, you could have at least let me have it.”

Snufkin watched as the Mymble wandered over and enveloped the Joxter in a hug. To his surprise, the Joxter actually hugged her back — in his own limp, rag-doll sort of way — and turned rather pink in the face. _Ridiculous_ — such behavior from an old man.

“It’s fine,” grumbled Snufkin. “I should go and talk to him, probably. He’s just —” He grimaced. 

"He's what?"

“Like… me.”

Moomin blinked, utterly confused. “Like you?”

Snufkin retreated farther into his hat. “Not great at conversations,” he muttered. 

“ _Oh!_ Well that’s —” Moomin made to put a comforting hand on Snufkin’s shoulder which turned into a comforting wave when he saw Snufkin flinch away. “That’s perfectly alright. Would you like me to come with you?”

“ _Nooo_ ,” Snufkin groaned. Then — for it would be best to get it over with — he smoothed his face, straightened his hat, brushed the worst of the dust and moomin-hair off his clothes, and marched over. 

The Joxter noticed him long before Moominpappa did. Moominpappa had sat the two of them down at one of the mismatched tables, where he was busy regaling the Joxter with everything he’d missed since he’d last been in Moominvalley. It was only after Snufkin had shuffled up awkwardly to the table, stood for a few minutes, cleared his throat, and at long last swiped a fork off the table, that Moominpappa finally noticed him and brought his story to a stuttering halt. 

“Hello,” said Snufkin.

“Hello,” said the Joxter. He paused. “How are you?”

“Good.” Pause. “How are you?” 

“Good as well.” 

Pause.

“Would you like a sandwich?” the Joxter asked.

The sandwich in question lay on the Joxter’s plate, and had a single bite take out of it. Snufkin stared at it.

“…No,” said Snufkin. 

“It’s tuna.”

“I know. No thank you.” 

The Joxter laid the plate gently back on the table. Snufkin cleared his throat again. 

“Well — I think I should… get back to the party.” 

The Joxter nodded.

Snufkin shuffled back to Moomin and Sniff’s table, where he sat down heavily with a sigh. 

“Well?” Moomin asked. “How was it?”

“Good.” Snufkin picked up a glass of something — he didn’t know what or whose it was — from the table, and took a swig. “Better than usual.”

Moomin looked doubtfully over to where the Joxter sat, and then back at Snufkin. Clearly, he’d watched the whole affair. “…Really?”

The first time Snufkin had met his father, he had left a dead stoat outside his tent in the dead of night. The second time, he’d accidentally broken Snufkin’s mandolin trying to play it with his sharp claws. Snufkin raised his eyebrows and took another sip of his — or someone’s — drink. “Oh, yes. It was.”

* * *

 

Slowly, the sun set and the evening grew dark and cool. A little bonfire was lit, and as promised, the Mymble brought out her violin to play everyone a lively springtime tune. Snufkin joined in at first on his harmonica, and watched as Moominmamma and Moominpappa and Sniff and Moomin and Snorkmaiden and the Mymble’s myriad of children danced round and round the fire. 

After a while, the Mymble started playing a slower tune, lonesome and melancholy. Snufkin set down his harmonica and simply watched as Moominpappa took Moominmamma’s hand and led her on a slow and elegant waltz — and as Moomin took Snorkmaiden’s hand, and began to dance with her as well.

Snufkin’s heart gave a horrible sort of _twang_ as he watched them, laughing and talking softly and swaying to the music. Snorkmaiden laid her snout on Moomin’s shoulder, and Snufkin’s stomach flipped. Moomin closed his eyes, looking content as could be, and Snufkin turned away entirely.

He wished he hadn't come. 

“Are they married?”

Snufkin whipped around. How long had the Joxter been there, standing so silently in the dark? Still without a sound, the old man shuffled over and sat down on the same fallen log on which Snufkin sat hunched over his harmonica.

“What?”

The Joxter jerked his head toward Moomin and Snorkmaiden. “Those two. I know Moomins marry quite young. I thought I might have missed it.”

Snufkin didn’t know Snorkmaiden terribly well — Moomin hardly spent time with the two of them together at the same time — but from all that Moomin talked about her, Snufkin gathered that much of the time he wasn’t with Snufkin, he was with her. He knew that the two of them had been best of friends since they were very little. He knew that Snorkmaiden was pretty, and kind, and there all year round, not just for the summer. He knew the Snorkmaiden loved Moomin.

And he knew that Moomin probably loved her back.

“No,” he said, in a very small voice. “But I think they might be soon.” 

The Joxter nodded, and pulled up his legs onto the log so that he could rest his chin on his knees. It always seemed like speaking was a second language to the Joxter — that his first language was simply silence and significant looks and twitches of the tail. Snufkin supposed he had inherited that from him. 

“Moominpappa and I used to go on adventures, when we were young,” The Joxter said quietly.

Snufkin was about to snap that he already knew this — for, after all, Moominpappa had told him more about his own father than he himself had — but today, that was not the thing that bothered him most. What bothered him instead was the thought of Moomin and Snorkmaiden getting married; the thought of them making a little home in Moominhouse, just as Moominmamma and Moominpappa had done; the thought of them having Moominchildren, and making Moominmemoirs, in which Snufkin would be nothing but a footnote, that strange and silent man Moomin had known when he was young. Perhaps Snufkin would come back years later to mither their children,and creep about at the edges of parties, and say odd and obvious things like — 

“You seem sad.”

Snufkin looked over to see that the Joxter was staring at him with those wide, oddly reflective eyes of his. 

“I’m fine,” he said, and pulled his hat farther down over his face.

“He’s _pining_ ,” said an entirely different voice, and Snufkin’s heart nearly stopped in his chest. On a nearby table, Little My’s head popped out of a stew-pot, and Snufkin stifled a groan. What did a man have to do for some _privacy_ around here?

The Joxter blinked. “Pining? For what?” 

Snufkin jumped up, sure that every bit of him was bright red, andslammed the lid back on the cooking pot, trapping My inside. “For some peace and quiet.”

Little My pushed back up on the lid with surprising strength, cackling loudly. “Not for what — _for who,”_ she managed, before Snufkin wrestled her into the pot again. 

“A who?” The Joxter fixed Snufkin with a placid stare. “Is that why you’re so sad, then?”

Snufkin’s heart was beating so hard he was afraid he might be sick. It was too hot, he thought suddenly — the bonfire raged and the Mymble’s violin played and the Joxter stared and Little My banged on the inside of the pot, and it was all too bright, too loud, too _much —_

“Snufkin!” 

Snufkin jumped and whipped around once more. Moomin was running towards him, grinning and dragging Snorkmaiden behind him, but at the sight of Snufkin’s face he stopped short.

“Snufkin?" His face fell. "What’s wrong?”

“I — don’t —” Snufkin stuttered.

“Are you alright?” said Moomin.

“He doesn’t look alright,” said Snorkmaiden. 

“What is it?” 

“Your face is all red — did you get bitten by something?"

“Do you need anything?” 

“Do you _want_ anything?”

Moomin laid a hand gently on his shoulder, and that was the final straw. 

“Don’t — _touch me!”_ he cried, jumping back — and instantly regretted it. The hurt in Moomin’s eyes felt like a knife to the chest. He took a step back, suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes on him. Sniff and Moominmamma and Moominpappa had stopped dancing; the Mymble had stopped playing, her bow poised in mid-air over the strings of her violin.

“I just want to be left _alone,_ ” he said, his voice cracking — and turned on his heels and ran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'3


	4. Something caught that night / your hands all wrapped in mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so first off thank you all SO MUCH for your lovely comments, my skin is clear and my crops are flourishing 😭 I haven't responded to all of them (mostly because I can't think of anything intelligent to say besides "aaaaaa tsym!!!!!!!!!") but rest assured I've read each and every one, and they melted my cold gay heart <3
> 
> And with that, buckle up grab your popcorn folks, bc this is a long one!

After watching Snufkin and his father together, Moomin had felt as though he finally understood why Snufkin was so… _Snufkin._

He’d thought the same when he saw Snufkin finally say hello to his mother, too — the Mymble hugged him just as she had his father, wrapping him in her arms and squishing him until his eyes seemed to pop out of his head, but Snufkin hadn't hugged her back. He'd only stood there, arms limp, doing his best impression of a wooden post, and Moomin had been left wondering whether he’d ever had a proper hug before in his life. (What a melancholy thought!)

And then Snufkin had run off into the woods, and Moomin had realized that perhaps he really didn’t understand Snufkin after all. 

“Snufkin!” he cried, and began to run after him — before he felt a hand upon his shoulder. 

“He did say he wanted to be left alone just now, dear,” Moominmamma said gently. 

“But I —” Moomin looked to Snorkmaiden and Moominpappa, who simply looked at him mournfully, and to the Joxter, who shrugged. 

_But that doesn’t apply to me,_ he wanted to say, though it sounded so silly when he put it like that. Why should he be an exception? Snufkin had run away from him just as much as he’d run from everyone else — and it had been _him,_ after all, who Snufkin had flinched from the most, when he’d tried to touch his shoulder. 

Throat tight and heart aching, he nodded, and followed Moominmamma back into the house.

* * *

Nearly everyone went home after that — the Mymbles had parked their turtle-home only a small way away, so it wasn’t too far a walk, and the Joxter disappeared into the night, off to wherever it was he went when he wasn’t in Moominvalley.Together, the rest of them put out the fire and gathered back in the party things, then settled in the kitchen for some hot chocolate before bed. 

Moominmamma’s hot chocolate was world-renowned — or at least, it would have been if she cared to share her recipe with the world, which she didn’t. It was just the right consistency, just sweet enough and just warm enough, with a sprinkle of cinnamon on top to finish it all off, and it never failed to raise Moomin’s spirits — or it never had before, until tonight. 

“Moomin?” Snorkmaiden asked finally, as Moominmamma and Moominpappa washed dishes in the other room, and Moomin still sat staring at his untouched hot chocolate. 

“Hmm?”

Snorkmaiden stirred the dregs of her drink with a little silver spoon. “You forgot we were going to stargazing tonight after all this, didn’t you?”

“Oh!” Moomin sat straight up, his ears drooping. “Oh, oh no, I’m so sorry! It just slipped my mind, what with the party and the whole business with — with —”

“With Snufkin,” she said quietly. "I know."

“We can still go,” said Moomin plaintively, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.

She looked up for a moment, and gave a small smile. “It’s alright. It’s late — and you look tired. I’m tired too. We’ll do it another night.”

“Oh — alright, then.” Moomin gently drew back his hand, and wrapped it around his mug again, staring down at his own mournful face reflected back in it. 

The hum of quiet voices from the kitchen was interrupted by a splashing sound and a startled cry, then laughter — probably Moominmamma splashing Moominpappa for teasing her, or for telling too dramatic a story, or simply for fun. There was more laughter, more splashing; and then, a moment later, Moominmamma’s voice turned low and lilting and playful. Moominpappa replied in kind — and then, they were back to laughing. Moomin felt the tips of ears grow warm. He cast a glance over at Snorkmaiden, but she seemed not to have noticed. 

Moomin had realized a long while ago that he didn’t know how to flirt. He’d gone through the motions — with Snorkmaiden, of course, for who else was there to flirt with — copying what he’d read in books and heard from his parents in moments such as these. He’d called her _dear_ , and _love,_ and hugged her and danced with her and nuzzled his snout against hers, but somehow it had always felt… _friendly._ He’d never felt a fluttering in his heart, or a weakness in his knees, like the various lovelorn fools in the more romantic adventure books in his father’s library. It had never felt like he thought it _should._

He had wondered, on more than one occasion, if that meant that Snorkmaiden must not be for him after all — and, because that thought scared him very much, he had always pushed it away. He’d known Snorkmaiden for many years; he’d known she loved him for almost all of them. What sort of ungrateful soul would he be, to throw away his chance with such a lovely girl simply because he wasn’t head-over-heels in love — to break her heart, just because _he_ wasn’t a romantic? 

Clearly, he just wasn’t trying hard enough.

“Moomin?” said Snorkmaiden for the second time that evening, and Moomin jumped in his seat, suddenly and intensely glad that she couldn’t read minds.

“Yes?”

“You want to go see Snufkin, don’t you?”

Moomin’s heart skipped a beat. Well, perhaps she could read minds after all — he hadn’t been thinking outright about Snufkin just then, but Snufkin’s stricken face as he ran away from the party had been working away at the back of his mind all evening. It was like a toothache — even when he tried to ignore it, even when he busied himself with other things, it was always there niggling at him.

Though Moomin hadn’t yet said anything, Snorkmaiden sighed as if he had. She stared at Moomin, and for a second he thought he saw something strange and sad in her eyes — but then she blinked, and it was gone. 

“You should go,” she said softly. 

“But — it’s so late, and —”

“He won’t mind. You know he won’t.”

Moomin opened his mouth to protest — and realized that he didn’t want to. Filled with a sudden rush of relief, like the release of a breath he hadn't known he was holding, he stood and went to the door. 

“Tell Moominmamma I might be back late, so she shouldn't wait up for me,” he said, opening the door. Then, poised on the threshold,he stopped and turned back to Snorkmaiden.

“We’ll go stargazing another night. I promise.”

There was that sad look again — only this time it didn’t go away. 

“I know," she said, and smiled. "'Night, you.”

“Goodnight.”

* * *

When Moomin found Snufkin’s tent — not an easy task in the dark — the coals of Snufkin’s fire were still warm. He had not gone to bed long ago, then — though that did not mean he couldn't already be asleep.

Or that Snufkin would want to see him. 

Moomin dallied around the entrance to Snufkin’s tent for a full five minutes, beset with nerves. Finally, gathering up all his courage, he squeaked: 

“Snufkin? Are you in there?”

There was a pause, so long that Moomin began to suspect perhaps he really wasn’t in there after all, before a small and croaky voice said:

“I’m busy.”

* * *

Snufkin was busy lying on his back, staring up at the roof of his tent, and being pathetic.

He had cried for a while — which he always hated doing, even if no one else was around to see — and now, even though he’d stopped long ago, his face still felt tight and swollen and hot around the eyes. 

He couldn’t let Moomin see him like this. 

“Oh,” said a quiet voice, in a tone so awfully, heart-breakingly sad that Snufkin felt as if someone had just strummed a minor chord across his heartstrings. “Does that mean… should I go away?”

Snufkin very rapidly changed his position on the whole “letting Moomin in” matter. Silently, he sat up, arranged his unkempt hair so that it did a decent job of covering up his eyes, and unzipped the flaps. 

The instant Moomin had crawled inside the tent and settled himself opposite Snufkin, who sat in the corner with his chin resting on his knees, he gasped:

“I'm sorry.”

Snufkin blinked. “Sorry for what?”

“For bothering you,” he mumbled. He put his own head on his knees as well, mirroring Snufkin like a reflection. “And for making you come to the party. And for bothering you at the party. And —”

Snufkin gave a weak sort of chuckle, which shut him up at once. 

“Moomintroll,” he said warmly, and was instantly embarrassed by how syrupy he sounded. “I was the one who agreed to go.”

Moomin squished his face with his hands. “Well — alright. But _something_ upset you. Won’t you tell me what it is, so I can try and make sure it never happens again?”

Snufkin’s heart gave a terrible lurch. He looked down, away from Moomin, and began picking at a loose stitch on the ratty blanket that served as his tent floor. 

“Was it your mother? Your father? Little My?”

With each name, Snufkin’s mouth grew progressively tighter — but of course, Moomin couldn’t see that, as Snufkin’s face was buried in the crook of his arm. 

“Well,” said Moomin finally, after a long silence, “if you ever want to tell me, I’m here to listen.”

He nodded, still picking at the blanket. 

“In the meantime, is there anything I can do to cheer you up a bit?”

Snufkin’s stomach took that moment to make a comically loud growl. 

“Oh — that’s right! You missed dinner, didn’t you?” Moomin said, springing to his feet. Snufkin protested at once.

“It’s fine — it’s very late. I don’t need anything. I had two — no, _three_ — fish earlier. I’m fine, I tell you.”

“I’ll get you something from the house! I’m sure we have something nice in the larder you could eat — back in a sec!”

And, before Snufkin could say a single word more, Moomin was gone.

“Moomintroll,” he sighed — and though he tried to make it sound annoyed, he found he couldn’t. How could one ever be annoyed with someone so sweet?

* * *

As Moomin blundered through the woods on his way back to Moominhouse, he tried to remember what they had in their larder that Snufkin might like to eat. It was rhubarb season, so they had plenty of that; though, in Moomin’s opinion, rhubarb was disgusting raw, and only good in crumbles. They had turnips and cauliflower, too — but then, the same problem applied. Did they have any biscuits left?Probably not. What about — 

Moomin’s foot caught on a gnarled tree root. Crying out, he exercised a very clumsy maneuver that was something like a forward roll, which ended with his face flat in the dirt and his limbs splayed out around him. As he groaned and rose to his feet, he lifted his hand to rub his nose — and was astonished to see that it was purple. 

He’d landed in a pile of fallen berries underneath a sprawling berry bush. Its leaves looked almost black in the moonlight, pointed and shiny, and here and there amongst its branches peeked out little bunches of bright purple berries. 

Moomin picked one and took a tentative sniff. It smelled delicious, sweet and tart and inexplicably… _purple_. Grinning, Moomin picked another.

* * *

“Snufkin!”

Snufkin jumped. He hadn’t expected Moomin to be back so soon, and so had taken the opportunity to go back to being miserable, sitting curled up in a blanket with only his face poking out, like an old woman going down to market in her newest headscarf. A tad embarrassed (for what must have been the fiftieth time that evening) he wriggled his way out of the blanket and let Moomin in.

“Do you know what these are?” Moomin asked, showing him his cupped hands, which were full of bright purple berries. “Are they edible? They certainly smell good.”

Snufkin lifted one up to the lamplight and _hmm_ ed. “They’re...  _sötlila_ berries, I think. Though usually they don’t grow this far north.” He squished it gingerly against his palm and squinted at it some more. “Yes — these are sötlila berries.”

“Ah, good, so I won’t die then. I ate three on the way here.”

“Moomintroll!” Snufkin gasped, horrified.

Moomin burst out into laughter. “I’m joking, I’m joking!”

They ate their midnight snack, and talked in soft voices about nothing and everything until the night grew cool, and dew began to gather on the outside of the tent. Moomin tried hard to stifle his yawns and his shivers, but Snufkin must have noticed nonetheless, for at last he set down his harmonica — which he had been polishing carefully — and said:

“It’s very late. You should get back to Moominhouse, I think.”

Moomin stifled yet another yawn, his eyes drooping. His little bed in Moominhouse seemed so, so far away, but the ground — well, the ground was _right here_. He let out a whine. “But it's so _cooold,_ and I'm so tired. Can’t I just stay here?”

Snufkin froze, midway through putting his harmonica away in his pack. Moomin watched him as he chewed the question over in his mind.

“I... only have one blanket,” he said finally. 

“I can be small,” Moomin insisted, pulling his knees up tight to his chest. “Well — small _ish_.”

Snufkin hesitated for one moment more — and then, visibly, he relented.

“Alright,” he said, and tossed said blanket to Moomin. “But only if you don’t snore.”

“I don’t snore!” Moomin settled himself down under the blanket, using his fluffy arm as a pillow. “It’s _you_ that snores.”

“Nonsense.”

“You do! Not all the time, just sometimes. And you kick as well, like you’re chasing things.”

"Such lies," Snufkin huffed indignantly, though the corner of his mouth quirked, and Moomin giggled. To Moomin's dismay though, when Snufkin finally settled down under the blanket as well, it was a full two feet away — so far away that his back was nearly pressed against the wall of the tent. Moomin’s heart sank, just a little. Evidently, he thought, Snufkin was still in one of those moods where he pushed away. 

For a while, they lay in silence in the dimly lit tent, interrupted only by the sounds of the forest — the hooting of owls, the shuffling of night-creatures through the brush, the rustling of leaves in the branches far above. Finally, just when Moomin had stopped wondering when Snufkin would turn off the lamp and very nearly drifted off to sleep, Snufkin reached out towards the lamp — 

— and took Moomin's hand in his.  


Moomin blinked. 

“Thank you for coming to see me today,” Snufkin murmured sleepily, and there was something about the softness of his voice and his eyes that made Moomin’s heart flip in a strange and not-entirely unpleasant way. “After I left the party, I mean. And I’m sorry I didn’t dance with you. It’s just —” He frowned. “It was all just too —  _too_ —"

“I know,” said Moomin, and squeezed Snufkin’s hand. It was rough and warm and calloused, and more than a little sticky from the berries they’d eaten earlier, but Moomin didn't mind — he was probably covered in a fair amount of berry juice himself. 

Snufkin gave a sigh, long and weary, as though he had been holding all the world's troubles deep inside him, and had only just now thought to breathe them out. “Goodnight, Moomintroll.”

“Goodnight, Snufkin.”

And with that, Snufkin finally turned off the lamp — with his other hand, so that he didn't have to let go of Moomin's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Moomin and Snufkin die of food poisoning from eating strange forest berries


	5. Well, we don’t want them to show / the hand you hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very stupid, you’re welcome.
> 
> I was going to post this and the next chapter all in one tomorrow, but altogether it would have been SO very long, so I'll just post this bit tonight. And thank you all again for the lovely comments you give me LIFE <3<3
> 
> (Also: CW for mention of drinking in this chap, and some actual drinking in the next. Apparently Moomin and Snufkin get sloshed in canon so who am I to turn down such an excellent narrative opportunity?)

The first thing Snufkin noticed when he woke up was that he was still holding Moomin’s hand. 

The second (and very closely related) thing that he noticed was that Moomin had rolled away from him in the night, but still kept hold of his hand — which meant that now Snufkin was cozied up against him from behind, his arm draped across Moomin like he was a giant white teddy bear.

For one blissful moment of semi-consciousness, the only thought that drifted through his mind was:  _Well, this is cozy._

And then the situation truly sunk in, and his eyes snapped open.

“Mmff— _whoagh!”_ Moomin cried as Snufkin sat suddenly bolt upright. He was still clinging to Snufkin’s hand like a limpet. “Whus’ going on?”

As Moomin raised his groggy head, Snufkin saw he had a small leaf stuck to the end of his snout. The sight alone was so heart-achingly sweet that Snufkin had to close his eyes a moment and take a few deep breaths. 

“Goodmorning, Moomintroll,” he said.

“Morning.”

“Would you, ah —” Snufkin gave a gentle tug at their joined hands and tittered in a way that he hoped came off as _calm and casual,_ rather than _painfully nervous_. “Would you mind letting go? I have things to do today, you know.”

Still squinting sleepily, Moomin chuckled and tugged back. “Me let go? You're the one still holding on to me, silly — _you_ let go."

There was a pause. Then: “I already did, Moomin."

Moomin sat up. Silently, the two of them looked down at their joined hands — and, at the same time, pulled. 

They stayed stuck. So, did the leaf on Moomin’s snout — which, Snufkin noticed noticed now, was sat in a patch of fur that was just a little more purple than the rest around it, as if a smear of jam had dried on Moomin’s nose. With a growing sense of dread, Snufkin reached out with his free hand and tried to pull the leaf free.

At once, Moomin yelped and flinched away. His eyes crossed, trying to see what it was. “What it that, a — a bit of grass? It felt like you were pulling right on my fur. It’s like it’s… glued on.”

Slowly, the two of them looked down at their joined hands. 

“Oh dear,” said Moomin.

* * *

They went down to the stream — Snufkin and Moomin and the blanket, for when Moomin had stood up he’d discovered that he’d somehow gotten berry juice on the very end of his _tail_ as well — and tried to wash it off. It wasn’t any use, though. After nearly half an hour spent scrubbing at their hands with sand and river rushes and even a sliver of soap that Snufkin had found deep in his pack, they hadn’t gotten anywhere — only gotten wet. 

Meanwhile, Snufkin was growing more and more agitated. Though he tried to hide it — for that, after all, was the _Snufkin Way —_ Moomin saw right through it. By the time they made it back to the tent, sopping wet and dragging the now-filthy blanket behind them, Moomin could see he was just about ready to burst.

“What are we supposed to _do?”_ asked Snufkin, a slightly hysterical note to his voice. 

“It’s alright,” said Moomin, trying his best to sound soothing and calm. “I’m sure Moominmamma will know what to do. She knows all kinds of cures and medicines. I’m sure she —”

“Are you mad?” Snufkin hissed. His eyes were wide suddenly, his cheeks pink. “We can’t let anyone _see_ us!”

Moomin blinked. “What do you mean?”

“They’ll — they’ll —” All at once, he dropped down to a squat in the brush, clutching his hands to his head — which of course meant that he was clutching _Moomin’s_ hand to his head as well. “They’ll see that we — that _I —”_

“Oh dear, dear, dear!” Moomin said softly, kneeling down in the grass until they were face to face. He tried to meet Snufkin's gaze, but he had scrunched his eyes shut tight. “ _Shh,_ it’s alright. It’ll be alright. Just breathe with me — there you go.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Snufkin’s ragged breaths became more even. He still looked rather unsteady, and skittish as a wild thing, but at least he no longer seemed in imminent danger of fainting.

“I want to help you, Snufkin,” said Moomin gently, “but I’m just not entirely sure what the matter is.”

Snufkin’s eyes flew open, and he let out a bark of laughter. “ _Not sure what the_ —” He stopped himself, and buried his face in his hands once again. “Could you just… get me my hat from the tent?”

There was a pause. “Well, I would, but…”

“ _Ah.”_ With a sigh, Snufkin scrubbed at his eyes and stood up. “Fine. Let’s both go and get my hat.”

* * *

“Ah! Well, here’s the matter,” said Moominpappa, peering through his reading glasses at an entry in his encyclopedia of plants. It was a huge tome, nearly as big as the kitchen table, and had taken two people to carry it down the stairs. “Not sötlila berries, but _lilalim_ berries! Very closely related — I can see how you might have gotten them mixed up.”

“And what do those do?” Moomin asked.

“Well, they’re incredibly sticky when dried — even used as glue or varnish in some places. You can build whole buildings out of them, if you're patient enough to gather that many. And they’re… highly poisonous….” Moominpappa squinted closer at the entry. “Ah! No, my mistake; _not at all_ poisonous. I always forget whether ‘one’ is at the top or the bottom of the scale! _Ha!_ ”

He chuckled. Moomin and Snufkin, who had stiffened a moment earlier, sagged with relief. 

“Well?” Snufkin asked impatiently, for he was feeling very anxious and very tired and very _watched —_ which, he was sure, had a lot to do with Little My, who was sitting on the stairs giving him and Moomin significant looks. “How do we get it off?”

“Oh! Yes, that.” Moominpappa peered at the book once more, muttering under his breath, then sat back and said rather sheepishly, “It, ah… doesn’t say.”

Snufkin spluttered. “It doesn’t _say?!”_

“Well, it takes several hours to set, so this sort of thing isn’t usually a problem — I suppose most people must wash it off in time.” 

Snufkin tried very hard to ignore Little My, who was snickering loudly. Clutching at the very last straws of his sanity, he turned to Moominmamma, who had been digging for the past ten minutes in her medicine cupboard. She shook her head sadly. 

“You already tried soap and water? And lots of scrubbing?”

The two of them nodded.

“Well — I have one or two things we might try, but I can’t guarantee they’ll work. I’m afraid, dear, you might be stuck to Moomintroll until his summer coat falls out in August.”

“But that’s —” Snufkin, never much of a mathematician at the best of times, found that his ability to do simple subtraction completely disappeared in times of stress. 

“About four months,” said Moomin. 

Snufkin slumped down to sit in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, half-dragging Moomin with him. “Four _months…._ ”

“You could consider amputation,” suggested Little My.

“Dear, be serious.”

“I am!”

* * *

The rest of the day passed quite miserably. 

After vinegar, toothpaste, butter, hair cream, and window cleaner all failed to dissolve the dried berry juice, Moominmamma had decided the best course of action would be to simply cut the blanket from Moomin’s tail and snip the leaf very carefully from his nose with her sewing scissors. It would be nearly impossible to do the same things for their hands, however, without at least one of them losing a finger — and so there they were, stuck together still, Moomintroll with a rather bald-looking tail and a tiny shaved spot at the end of his nose.

The worst thing — no, nearly the worst thing — was the forgetting. Every hour or two, either Moomin or Snufkin would forget they were now glued at the wrist, and attempt a perfectly normal task like eating or climbing a ladder or playing a harmonica, only to discover that it had suddenly become a complicated three-handed maneuver that took twice as long as usual. It was like a three-legged race, only there was no prize.

The _worst_ thing, Snufkin decided, was the fact that at any other time — say, in a darkened tent in the middle of the night where no one could see him blushing, for example — he would have quite loved to hold Moomin’s hand. But _now —_ now he felt watched. Obvious. _Trapped._ It was as though someone had built a fence about Moominvalley, about _Moomin_ , caging him in — and everyone knew how he felt about fences. 

To cheer him up, Moomin suggested that they go fishing. This worked for a little while — even though it took several tries to set up the fishing pole with their combined two-and-a-half hands, and even though they met Sniff along the way (who’d taken one look at their clasped hands and asked, “You two going out now, then?” to which Moomin replied, “Yes, out fishing!”), the fresh air had done wonders for Snufkin’s mood. Out here, under the bright sky with only the babbling of the stream and the singing of birds to keep them company, he could almost forget the rest of the day had ever happened. 

“ _Moomintroll!”_

Snufkin froze. No, not now, not on top of everything — why did she have to come by _today,_  of all days?

“Hullo, Snorkmaiden!” Moomin called back.

“Hullo,” said Snorkmaiden as she came closer. “I was wondering if you wanted to go —”

But they never found out what it was Snorkmaiden wanted to go to, for at that very moment she happened to glance down and spot their joined hands. Possibly, Snufkin thought later, it was the agonizingly guilty look on his face that really did it. 

“Of course — as long as Snufkin can come!” laughed Moomin. To Snufkin’s mortification, he lifted up their hands in the air for Snorkmaiden to see and waved them around. “See, it’s a funny story actually —”

“Oh, for _God’s_ sake!” Snorkmaiden cried out, stomping her foot on the bridge — and then, before anyone else could say a word, she turned on her heel and marched away. Moomin called after her, but she paid him no attention.

“I was just —” said Moomin balefully as she disappeared into the forest, “I was just trying to tell her that… well, you _have_ to come, because… the berries….” He heaved a mighty sigh, and shook his head. “I don't know what I'm doing wrong, Snufkin."

Snufkin merely tugged his hat down and turned back to his fishing, stewing in both firsthand and secondhand embarrassment. He loved Moomin dearly — that at least, in some quiet and secret corner of his heart, he’d made peace with — but Moomin could be colossally stupid sometimes.

* * *

Snufkin had been wrong earlier. The worst part — the _very_ worst part — was when it was time for bed.

He’d hoped at first that they could sleep again in his tent, but as the sun went down it had begun to storm so terribly that that was out of the question, unless they wanted to wake up four miles downstream. And so Snufkin had eaten dinner with the Moomins, a difficult affair during which they dropped at least two spoons and a glass of water. Afterwards, when Moomin yawned and suggested they make their way up to bed, Snufkin had cast a significant glance towards the bottle of wine Moominmamma and Moominpappa had opened over dinner. 

"We can take it up, if you want," said Moomin.

Snufkin nodded and picked it up at once, wedging it into the crook of of his elbow like he was cradling a baby. 

“Grab a candle and a pair of wineglasses while you’re at it,” Little My chimed in helpfully.

Snufkin scowled at her and picked up two water glasses. Perfectly normal, those glasses — totally unromantic. Just two old friends, sharing a bottle of wine on a stormy night… on the same bed. Holding hands. 

If this truly went on for another four months, Snufkin was sure he’d die of heart complications before it was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snorkmaiden i'm so sorry you have to deal w these goddamn idiots
> 
> Also PSYCHE the berries were relevant after all (ﾉ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧


	6. And just promise me this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (`w´)

“This ‘s very good wine,” said Snufkin. “Any more of it?”

Moomin poured him some more, then let it rest on the bedside table. “That’s the last of it.”

“Oh — you’re sure you’re alright if I take it all?”

“‘Course. I’ve still got some left in my glass over there. All tastes like socks anyway, though.” 

Snufkin huffed and took a sip. “I suppose it’s an acquired taste….”

“How come you’ve acquired it then, out in woods? Does it… does it grow on _trees?_ ”

Moomin laughed very long and hard at that one, before Snufkin said:

“Well — yes. Grapes do. On vines, that is.” 

Moomin stopped laughing. “Oh.”

“It’s not _all_ woods, you know. I go to places besides woods. Towns n’ things. They have shops and taverns, sometimes. Best wine I ever had was with this… this sort of hedgehog-man, on the coast. He made it himself, I think.” He frowned vaguely. “Actually — he may have just been a hedgehog. Not sure.”

Moomin lay down on his front and propped his head in his hands — or rather, he tried to, then remembered one of them belonged to Snufkin, and leaned on just his right. “Do you have friends in other towns, Snufkin?”

Snufkin paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. “Friends? Well — no. Not really. Just people I know.”

“Hmm.” Moomin closed his eyes. It was warm in the room, despite the pouring rain outside — warm, and quiet, and lit with the dim gold light of Moomin’s little table lamp. He hadn’t had much of the wine, but just enough to give all his thoughts the same sort of golden glow.  Another question bubbled up in his mind, one that seemed quite important to ask at the moment, though he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because he knew that it would feel too odd to ask such a thing in the morning, when it was light and other people were about and he he had full control of his senses again.

“Do you have any girlfriends in other towns?”

Snufkin nearly snorted an entire mouthful of wine across the bed. 

“Girlf— _plural?!”_ he managed to cough out. 

Moomin shrugged. “I don’t know. You never seem to stay in one place for long besides Moominvalley, so —”

Snufkin stared at Moomin in what appeared to be horror. “Why would you think I had — had _even one_ girlfriend? Let alone….”

“Well, you never talk about these sorts of things, so I thought —”

“That I must have a girlfriend? That I never talk about?” Snufkin said. He sounded as though he had been accused of murder. “Why would you think I had a girlfriend because I’ve never talked about having a girlfriend?”

Moomin shrugged again, and Snufkin fell back against the headboard of the bed with a sigh. 

“No… no, none of that for me,” he muttered. “I’m a lone spirit, see? A free wolf — no. A free _spirit._ Lone wolf. Got to have my… my alone time. Just me and the trees. Can’t have anyone holding me back.”

As Snufkin continued to talk to himself about wolves and open roads, Moomin felt his spirits sinking lower and lower. He stared at their hands, at Snufkin’s sharp-clawed fingers twined in his, and wished he’d never asked his question. He wished he’d never picked those berries. He wished a great many things, one after the other, until the sheer weight of them seemed to weigh down his very soul. 

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled finally. 

“— only have _one_ fork and _one_ spoon with me at all — what?” Snufkin blinked. “Sorry for what?”

Moomin sat up, his ears drooping. “For — lots of things! For inviting you to the party, even though I _knew_ you probably wouldn’t like it, ‘nd bothering you all the time, and picking those awful berries, and staying over in your tent….” To his mortification, Moomin could feel his throat beginning to tighten — what a baby he was. He pushed on anyway “It was me who got us into this whole mess! I know you like to be alone. I know that… that you don’t want to be around me all the time. I must get —” His voice quivered. “Pretty annoying, mustn’t I?”

“Oh,” said Snufkin, looking stricken. He reached out a hand in a comforting sort of fashion, but didn’t seem to know what to do with it. “Oh no, no, don't cry, please — you don't annoy me, Moomintroll!”

Moomin sniffled and gave a weak chuckle, scrubbing at his eyes. “Thanks.” 

“I mean it!” He leaned forward and squeezed Moomin’s hand, which was not an entirely pleasant feeling, as it pulled on his fur, but he appreciated it nonetheless. “I’m sorry — I'm stupid. Everything I just said was stupid. I _do_ like to be alone, but — you don’t count!”

Moomin raised an eyebrow. “Thanks…?”

Snufkin scrunched his eyes shut. “That came out badly. What I mean is, I… I don’t like being _glued_ to anyone, but that doesn’t mean I _hate_ them. Can you imagine if I was glued to… to my harmonica, or something? And I love my harmonica!" He gesticulated wildly, almost spilling wine over the bed. I love spending time with you, Moomintroll. I love coming here in the summer. I love —”

He came to a stuttering halt then, looking at Moomin with a strange sort of open-mouthed stare. Then, to Moomin's horror, he took up his glass and chugged its entire contents in one.

“Snufkin!” Moomin cried. 

He finished, gasped, then looked Moomin straight in the eyes. 

“I love… you,” he said softly. 

Moomin’s heart gave a strange lurch he didn’t quite understand. He found himself, somehow, at a loss for words. 

“Aww,” he said finally, and tried to pat Snufkin on the arm, forgetting yet again that their hands were linked. He ended up lifting up Snufkin’s hand and patting his own shoulder with it. “I love you too. You’re m’ best friend. In the whole world.”

Snufkin looked outraged. “ _No._ You’re my — _no._ You don’t understand. I — _love —_ y— _whoops._ ”

He’d dropped his empty glass, which he’d been shaking in the air to punctuate each word, on the floor. Thankfully, it hadn’t broken, although it had rolled away and into the corner. Snufkin spent a few awkwardly twisted moments leaning over the side of the bed trying to grab it, but it was useless. Finally, he sighed and went limp, dangled half over the edge of the bed. 

“You don’t _understand,”_ he wailed. “‘S why I didn’t like us holding hands, you know. I don’t like — people _knowing._ But everyone knows now. Everyone except you. Because you couldn’t possibly imagine that anyone but Snakemord… Snarck… _Snork-mai-den_ could want to hold your hand.”

“What does Snorkmaiden have to do with anything?” Moomin said.

Snufkin lifted his free arm and waved it about helplessly. “Because, you’re going to _marry_ her. And then I’ll be....” He laughed rather hysterically. “I’ll have to stand next to you at the wedding. You’ll have to put the rings on the other hand, because you’re still stuck to me on that one. _Now, you may kiss the bride — don’t mind Snufkin over there…_.”

He laughed again, though it sounded closer to tears this time. Finally, he hiccuped and fell silent — and the two of them lay there, listening to the sounds of the wind worrying at the shutters outside. 

“What if I don’t marry Snorkmaiden?” Moomin mumbled, so quietly that he wasn’t sure if Snufkin would even hear him.

Snufkin lifted his head “What?” 

Moomin felt his cheeks grow warm. “I _said,_ what if I don’t marry Snorkmaiden?”

There was a pause. Snufkin executed a strange, twisty maneuver so he could look Moomin in the face.

“Do you not want to?”

This was another thing, Moomin knew, that he wouldn’t have the courage to say in the morning, and so he ran with it now, though every inch of him longed to simply change the subject and forget his worries. “I just… Lately, I just seem to make her cross all the time. Cross or sad. And I’m not sure why. And it all makes me wonder, if she’s not happy and I’m not happy, are we really… in love? Were we _ever_ in love? Or… is it just me?" Miserably, he pulled at one of his ears. "We've been together for so long, but I just don’t… you know.”

Snufkin reversed his twisty maneuver until he was sitting up again, face to face with Moomin.

“I do know,” he said absent-mindedly, as if he hadn't even meant to say the words aloud. 

Moomin opened his mouth to reply, to ask Snufkin what he meant, but was distracted by the subtle brush of the end of Snufkin’s tail against his leg. They were awfully close, he realized — face to face, knee to knee, hand to hand. When he looked up to meet Snufkin’s eyes, they were wide and warm and golden in the reflected light from the lantern, and Moomin felt his stomach give a sudden _swoop_ as if he’d just stepped off a ledge, and — 

_Oh._

Something clicked in Moomin’s mind, though he was too afraid and too surprised and too tipsy to take a step back and look at exactly what it was just yet. Instead he found himself swaying forward, carried by some strange momentum, until — 

“Ow,” said Snufkin calmly as his nose was squished flat against his face.

Moomin leapt back at once, his hands flying to his snout. 

“Oh,” he said, suddenly feeling quite sober indeed. “Oh no.”

“What was that?” Snufkin asked placidly. Then, as Moomin watched in horror, the calm smile slid off his face and his eyes grew wide.

“Oh gosh, oh no, I’m so _sorry —”_ rambled Moomin. 

“Was that—?” Snufkin put a hand to his nose. “Did you just—?”

“Don’t say it!” 

“Did you just —” Snufkin spluttered, “ _kiss me?!”_

Moomin turned away and clapped his free hand over his ears. “ _Ohhh,_ I told you not to say it!”

After a few moments’ awful silence, Moomin risked a peek at Snufkin between his fingers. He sat, still holding his hand to his nose, staring straight ahead as a small smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

“Sorry,” Moomin muttered again. 

Snufkin blinked and met his eyes. The smile disappeared. “Did you —” He hesitated. “Did you mean to?”

Moomin froze. He thought. He took a long, careful walk in his mind around the _thing,_ the realization he'd had a few moments earlier, which he was too afraid to confront head-on just yet, but whose rough shape he already knew.   

Slowly, he nodded.

Snufkin giggled. It was an odd sound coming from him, sudden and surprising and melodic, like the cry of a songbird coming from a tree much closer than expected. Moomin’s heart fluttered once more and oh, _oh,_ how was it he’d never noticed any of this before?

Snufkin gave him an oddly conspiratorial look. With agonizing slowness, he reached out and took hold of Moomin’s other hand. Then, so quickly Moomin might have missed it if he blinked, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the very end of Moomin’s snout, where the leaf had gotten stuck just that morning. It seemed like an age ago now. 

“There,” said Snufkin, his voice shaky. “I returned the favor.”

Something seemed to melt in Moomin then. He felt as though he was perched at the top of a rollercoaster, nervous and terrified and ecstatic all at once. Snufkin still hadn’t let go of his hand.

Outside, the wind blew. The shutters rattled. Thunder rumbled. It made for a very dramatic backdrop. 

“Well,” Moomin said finally, for if he didn’t say anything the two of them seemed likely to keep sitting there and staring at each other all night long — “What do we do now?”

Snufkin pondered for a moment. 

“I think,” he said, “that I might be sick, actually.”

Moomin burst out laughing. “You — what? Really?”

Snufkin nodded — and now that he said it, Moomin could definitely see it. He was looking paler and queasier by the second. “Yes. Ah — quite soon, actually.”

It wasn’t funny, but Moomin couldn’t help but giggle anyway. “You — you _idiot._ What'd you have to chug all that wine for? I suppose you don't have much of an 'acquired taste' for it after all. Come on.”

Later, after Moomin had spent an unpleasant few minutes standing at arm’s length while Snufkin made some truly horrific noises in the bathroom, he asked teasingly:

“So — was I really that bad?”

Snufkin snorted and shot him a lopsided smile. “The worst _.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ＼(´▽｀)ノ
> 
> Edit: holy shit i just realized i can put pictures in here
> 
> Snufkin when Moomin's all like "Aww... you're my best friend too": 
> 
>  


	7. That you'll give me all your kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW has it been so long since I updated?? Oh wait, I know this one: a) I was out of town for a while and b) I'm a lazy bitch. Whoops
> 
> Anyway, here 'tis. ALSO: thank you all sO mUch for all your lovely comments oh my god?? 😭😭 I'm so sorry I rarely ever reply to any, mostly bc I can't think of anything coherent to say, but know that I've read each and every single one and they give me SUCH JOY! Without you all, I may very well have withered away and died last week on the floor of JFK airport (or PVD! or LGW! or DUB! or AMS! I am so fucking sick of airports y'all), but thanks to your love and support, and also a Lunabar I found at the bottom of my bag, I was able to make it through. God bless u all

Snufkin woke up the next morning feeling, somehow, the best and worst he had ever felt in his life. 

One might think they would cancel out — the golden early morning sunlight across his face and the pounding of his head, the feeling of Moomin’s soft hand in his and the feeling in his mouth as if something had died there in the night — but they did not. Instead they combined to make a curious new emotion unlike any he had ever experienced before — _excellenterrible,_ he thought groggily. Or perhaps _amazingawful._

And the _most_ excellenterrible thing, of course, was what he remembered of last night. 

He sat up slowly, clutching at his head as if that might soothe whatever small and vengeful beast was currently tramping around inside of it, and cast a glance at Moomin, who lay still sleeping on the bed. The sun caught upon every soft hair on his head, casting him in gold. Snufkin’s heart skipped a beat. Or two. Or three.

Moomin had kissed him. He had kissed Moomin _back —_

_—_ but they had had a lot of wine. Had it been an accident? Would Moomin even remember it when he woke up? Would he be angry — upset — ashamed?

— but he had nodded, when Snufkin had asked him if he meant to kiss him. And he had seemed happy enough the night before.

— but perhaps this was all a misunderstanding. Perhaps Moomins regularly kissed their dearest friends; and besides, it hadn’t been a real kiss after all, had it? Just a bumping of noses. 

— but could Moomins kiss any other way? Probably not; they had such large snouts. Perhaps if one turned this way, and the other turned — no, _no,_ he had to stop thinking all that. One couldn't think those sorts of things about friends.

— _but._ Were they only friends? All this had happened after Moomin had said that he didn’t want to marry Snorkmaiden, after all, and after Snufkin had said that he… that he loved… that he liked Moomin very much. 

_But, but, but._

It was enough to drive anyone mad, Snufkin thought. Was this was being in love was always like — being driven mad? Or was that only the case when you were in love with your dearest friend?

Beside him, Moomin was waking up. It was a gradual thing, consisting of lots of groaning and squinting and fluttering of eyelids, and when it was finally done his gaze caught on Snufkin and he said, so sweetly and softly that Snufkin felt as if he might melt then and there — 

“Good morning, Snufkin.”

Snufkin found himself grinning. “Goodmorning, Moo—”

And then Moomin stretched his arms above his head, lazy and cat-like, and knocked over the half-full cup of wine he’d left on the bedside table the night before. 

The two of them leapt up off the bed at once — or rather, theytried to. Moomin pulled left and Snufkin pulled right, and in the end the two half-slid, half-rolled from the bed in a tumble of limbs and muffled cries which nearly landed them both in the spreading pool of wine. Once they’d scrambled to their feet again, Moomin directed them to the linen cupboard down the hall, the very top shelf of which held a number of old and ratty towels which Moominmamma wouldn’t mind stained. But as they knelt back in Moomin’s room laying down the towels, Snufkin froze — for an idea had just occurred to him.

“What are you doing?” Moomin yelped as Snufkin grabbed one of the wine-sodden towels, held it up above their joined hands — and wrung it out. “You’re going to turn my fur pink! That stuff stains, you know —”

“Shh, shh, I’ll get it off in a minute. I just wanted to see if…” He let out a small gasp. “There — look!”

Ever so slightly, so subtly that they both doubtless would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching closely, Snufkin’s thumb wiggled. The berry-glue was weakening. 

“ _Alcohol,”_ whispered Moomin. 

They looked at each other — and scrambled to their feet.

* * *

“Wine!” cried Moomin, crashing down the stairs with Snufkin in tow. “We need more wine!”

At the breakfast table, Little My and Moominpappa jumped. Without looking up from her morning crossword, Moominmamma said calmly, “It’s only nine in the morning, dear. And besides, you boys had the last of it last night.”

“It doesn’t have to be wine! Brandy, whiskey — do we have anything at all?”

“Finally snapped, have you?” Little My said. “Look what you’ve done, Snufkin — you’d driven him to drink.” 

“It’s not for —” Snufkin snapped, but Moominpappa cut in.

“I think we may have some brandy, actually. Lovely vintage, got it in some far-flung port town years ago, but I’ve never been much of a brandy fellow for it myself. I _must_ say, though, it is rather early to —”

But the two had already disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later they ran back out again, Moomin with the bottle and Snufkin with a corkscrew, and in a matter of moments they had opened the bottle (they were getting quite good at this three-handed juggling act, it seemed) and poured it straight into Little My’s empty muesli bowl. Moominpappa made a strangled sound. 

They plunged their hands into the bowl and waited — one seconds, two seconds, three….

“They’ve gone mad,” Little My announced confidently.

“Think it’s been long enough?” Moomin asked.

Snufkin tried to wiggle his fingers, but the bowl was too small — and besides, his thumb was worryingly close to a squishy raisin stuck to the side of the bowl. He didn’t want to risk it. “Maybe. Let’s see.”

Slowly, they lifted their dripping hands from the bowl — and _pulled._

With a horrible sticky sound like someone peeling a pancake off the ceiling (a sound which Moomin knew all too well, thanks to Little My), they flew apart and landed square on their behinds on the ground. 

There was a moment’s stunned silence. Snufkin stared down at his hands. They were a little sticky still, and smelled very strongly of brandy, and he had indeed taken the raisin with him when he’d pulled them out the bowl — but they were _his_ again. 

Moomin chuckled. So did Snufkin. 

“I’m so glad you solved it, dears,” said Moominmamma as the two of them dissolved into giddy laughter. “But I do wish you’d just asked me for some rubbing alcohol. There’s plenty of it in the medicine cabinet.”

* * *

Snufkin stepped out onto the porch of Moominhouse and breathed, slowly and deeply. He closed his eyes, relishing the sound of the birds and the smell of the grass drying after last night’s rain, and he _breathed._ It felt so good to be on his own once more. 

Even after they’d pried themselves apart that morning and washed their hands with Moominmamma’s rubbing alcohol, it had still taken a solid quarter of an hour’s scrubbing with hot soap and water before the last of the stickiness was gone. The pair of them had stood side by side at the kitchen sink while Moomin’s family carried on with breakfast as normal in the other room — as if the entire world had not shifted on its axis, as if this was simply the conclusion to yet another of Moomin and Snufkin’s silly adventures, as if this morning was a perfectly normal one.

Things would never be normal again, Snufkin mused. The very thought was glorious and terrifying in equal measure. 

Moomin had nudged his arm then — a casual thing, playful and gentle, yet it contained a thousand words. Snufkin’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and the mere touch of soft fur against his skin was enough to set his heart to pounding again. He met Moomin’s eyes, and saw that they were sparkling. 

“Would you like to go fishing later?” he asked. “On your own, I mean. I can tell you want to.”

He _did_ want to, quite desperately. Gratefully, he nodded. 

Moomin grinned — and then, after a moment’s hesitation, added, “I can join you later. If you like, that is.”

Snufkin considered it. If you had asked him the evening before what would be the first thing he’d do after being unstuck from Moomin, he’d probably have said he’d disappear into the woods for a few weeks until the embarrassment wore off. But now… 

Now, the great secret which had made every moment with Moomin so heartachingly bittersweet, the secret he’d been dancing around for so many weeks and months and _years_ was a secret no longer — or, at the very least, it was no longer a secret to Moomin. He had spent so long trying to keep his distance, trying to play it safe, scolding himself every time he sat too close or stared too long or blushed too much — and now, there was no reason to. 

This was going to take some getting used to.

“Yes,” he said, heat rising to his face. “I’d like that.” 

Moomin grinned. For a fraction of a second, Snufkin thought he might kiss him again — and in that giddy, perfect, terrifying moment, he suddenly remembered something. 

“Are you going to talk to Snorkmaiden today?” he blurted.

Moomin’s face fell at once. He shut the tap off and gave a great sigh.

“Oh dear. I… I should, shouldn’t I? _Ohh_ — but I don’t want to!” He gave an anguished sort of moan, and threw his head back to stare at the ceiling. “But you’re right. We can’t keep… doing this. Not until I talk to her.” 

_And what is ‘this,’ exactly?_ Snufkin’s brain supplied at once. Brushing elbows over the kitchen sink? Kissing drunkenly in the dark? _Dating?_ His mind recoiled automatically from the very word. It was too definite, too serious, too… full of expectations. He did not know how to _date._ He’d never considered himself a _dating_ person. 

But then what else would they be doing, after Moomin broke things off with Snorkmaiden? 

“I’ll find her, while you’re out fishing this morning,” Moomin said, oblivious to Snufkin’s internal crisis. “I’ll see you later and tell you…” He winced. “How it went, I suppose.”

And so Snufkin had taken up his fishing pole (which he’d left at Moominhouse the previous day, after being caught by the storm) and wandered down to the river. He was glad, in an exceptionally guilty sort of way, that it wasn’t him who would have to talk to Snorkmaiden. He’d never been one for confrontations — well, unless they were with the law. He knew how to deal with park keepers; but soon-to-be-ex-girlfriends of boys you were sort of, kind of, maybe, for the lack of a better word, _dating?_ That was a different matter entirely. Until the end of the summer, he resolved, he would just have to try and avoid — 

Snorkmaiden was sitting on the middle of the bridge. 

Snufkin skittered to a halt. Snorkmaiden had clearly noticed him, so it was too late to turn and run; or at least, it was too late to run without it seeming incredibly suspicious and rude. So instead, Snufkin simply stood and stared, which was definitely rude, but probably not suspicious.

“No Moomintroll today?” Snorkmaiden said drily. “I thought you two were joined at the wrist nowadays.”

“Well,” Snufkin stuttered, “that’s a — an interesting, story, actually —”

“I know, Little My told me about it yesterday evening. That’s what I was referring to.” 

“Oh.”

They stood in excruciating silence for a few moments more, until at last Snorkmaiden shifted over and gestured to the space beside her on the bridge. “Go on, then.”

“Oh, no — it’s fine. I didn’t come here to fish, I was just —”

“Going for a walk? With your fishing pole?” She snorted. “ _Sit.”_

Snufkin sat.

They didn’t speak, at first. Snufkin readied his line and threw it out, and Snorkmaiden stared out across the river, and away in the forest a wakeful owl called, and Snufkin wondered desperately how soon he could leave. After two fish, perhaps? One? Or maybe he could stand up now, and say something like, _Oh, the fish just aren’t biting today,_ or _I just remembered — I have some bread back at my campsite that needs using up. I’ll just have that for lunch instead._

But just as he opened his mouth to utter what would undoubtedly be an outrageous and completely transparent lie, Snorkmaiden spoke. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, “for snapping at you two yesterday. I didn’t know it was a — a _medical condition,_ or what have you.” 

Snufkin’s mouth snapped shut.

“…It’s alright,” he said finally, though it sounded more like a question than anything else.

“It’s just….” She heaved a sigh. “He makes me so _mad_ sometimes. It’s so hard to get him alone, and even when I do, it feels like… he’s not even really _there._ It’s not supposed to be like that, is it? I shouldn’t have to chase him down every time I want to spend time together.”

Snufkin cast her a terrified glance. Was he supposed to reply? Was she looking for advice? How was it that he, who hated talking and hated emotions and _above all else_ hated talking about emotions — had ended up listening to two different moomins talk about their relationship troubles in the space of a single day — a relationship in which he was inextricably and uncomfortably involved?

“I wish he’d just _admit_ it — that we’ve been pretending all this time,” Snorkmaiden carried on. “Pretending like everything’s fine, and like we’re not miserable. Pretending like we both don’t know he forgets about me sometimes.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Pretending like he doesn’t like you more than me.”

Snufkin stopped breathing for a moment. It was pure instinct; a command from the small part of the back of his brain which still thought he was a wild forest creature like his ancestors had been, telling him to _be still, be still, you’ve been spotted!_

Only, as an instinct, it worked far better if you were in the middle of a forest, and not on a bridge in broad daylight with your face turning red and your heart skittering in your chest.

“Oh, you don’t have to look like that,” Snorkmaiden said exasperatedly. “Everyone already knows, anyway.”

If she had thought such a statement would provide him some comfort, she was wrong. He made a small noise, somewhere between a squawk and a chuckle and a sob, and pressed a hand to cover his face.

“I just…” said Snorkmaiden. “I just want to know. How much do you like him?” 

Snufkin turned to look at her, and though he said not a word, what little she saw of the sliver of his face between his hand and his hat must have answered her question.

“Yes,” she said with a sigh, “that’s what I thought.”

If Snufkin had thought the last silence had been awkward, this one took the cake. He wasn’t even pretending to fish anymore — below in the river, the bobber bobbed, but as reeling in the fish would have involved taking his hand away from his furiously blushing cheeks, he let it go. 

“You know,” Snorkmaiden said abruptly, “I think I might start travelling. Not like you do, of course — not in the winter. I’ve got to hibernate. And maybe not for quite such a long time. I think it would be nice, though, to see some of the world. There must be a boy somewhere out there who’ll appreciate my stunning good looks and innumerable talents…” She paused, leaning forward to prop her chin upon her hands and gaze out across the water. “Or a girl.” 

Snufkin’s head shot up. 

“Oh, don’t look so _shocked,”_ she said, and snorted with laughter. _“_ I need someone as beautiful and romantic and devoted as I am, don’t I? And, no offense, but —” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “— boys have been _so_ disappointing so far in that regard.”

Something seemed to loosen in Snufkin then — a knot of fear, or worry, or loneliness, or some ugly combination of the three. He hadn’t known it was there to start with, but now that it had unwound ever so slightly, he found his mouth twisting into a smile. 

Snorkmaiden smiled back — and then, in a suddenly businesslike fashion, got to her feet and patted on the shoulder. “I’m glad we had this talk, Snufkin. Even though — well. I suppose it was mostly me doing the talking. But I’m glad we did it anyway. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, she marched off towards Moominhouse, looking for all the world as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

* * *

Later, after Snufkin had put away his fishing things and taken out his harmonica instead, as the summer sun began to make its way slowly down the other side of the sky, Moomin came to join him. Without a word or a wave of even a nod of the head, he sat down next to Snufkin and looked dazedly out across the water. Finally, when Snufkin came to the end of his latest summer tune and still it seemed Moomin had nothing to say, he asked:

“Did you do it?”

“Yes,” Moomin said. “Or — well, _she_ did. I was working up the nerve all morning, and then she turned up at the door and I took a deep breath, you know, ready to invite her in and sit down and make a cup of tea or something before I really get into it, and she just says ‘Moomintroll, I don’t think we should date anymore.’ And walked away!”

Snufkin nodded, wide-eyed, trying to look surprised. 

_“_ I mean, I should be glad, of course! I didn’t want to do it, and now she’s done it for me. But it’s just so odd that we picked the very same day to break up with each other. It feels like… like when you go to open a heavy door, and you go to pull really hard, and then someone opens it from the inside and sends you flying. I just didn’t expect it to be that…” He blinked. “Easy.”  


"That’s good though isn’t it?”

"Yea," Moomin said, and and for the first time since coming down to the bridge a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Yea, it is. I was scared earlier that she might start crying or something, but she actually seemed... happy. Which is a  _little_ insulting —" He chuckled. "But I'm glad. I'm happy she's happy."

He let out a long breath, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he did so as if he'd been holding it all day — all week — all _year._  He leaned back on his arms, staring up at the fat summer clouds drifting across the sky. 

“Well,” said Moomin. “What do we do now?”

Snufkin lay down on his back on the bridge, his legs still dangling off the end, and pulled his hat over his eyes to shade them from the sun.  “Whatever we like, I suppose.”

Down on the bank, a frog croaked. Somewhere across the river, a woodpecker tapped at a tree, searching for his dinner.

"Whatever we like?"

Something about the way in which he said it made Snufkin's ears turn red under his hat. He heard Moomin shift closer on the bridge, felt the coolness of his shadow upon him. Moomin lifted Snufkin's hat gently from his face, and suddenly they were face to face, close enough that Snufkin could see himself reflected in Moomin's eyes. 

"I have an idea," said Moomin, though he sounded quite embarrassed by it. That was the trouble with all this romance business, Snufkin thought — no matter which way you went about it, it was always so embarrassing. Did that go away, he wondered, with time? Did Moominmamma and Moominpappa still blush when they held hands in front of the family — when they kissed? Oh dear God; that wasn't the thing to think about now. What was he doing, thinking of Moomin's  _parents_ when —

Moomin leaned down, slow as a leaf falling in autumn, and pressed his snout to Snufkin's nose, and Snufkin's racing mind stopped dead in its tracks. 

It still wasn't a kiss as Snufkin knew it of course, but it was... soft. And slow. And still, in a way that had nothing to do with noise; it was still as a forest clearing was still, still as falling snow, still as a lake on a windless day. It seemed to quiet his very soul. In short, it was going very well, until —

" _Nnf,"_ said Snufkin. 

"Sorry, sorry!" Moomin bolted upright. "Did I squish you again?"

Snufkin rubbed his nose. "Just a little."

They looked at each other — Snufkin rubbing his nose, and Moomin holding his hands in a horrified sort of fashion in front of his snout — and they began slowly, breathlessly, to laugh. Moomin flopped forward and draped himself across Snufkin's stomach like an overlarge cat.

"I'm not very good at this," he said, still giggling.

"Neither am I."

Moomin reached over to grab Snufkin's hat and place it back over his face, where it sat at a decidedly jaunty angle. "We'll get the hang of it, I'm sure." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this one to poor Snorkmaiden, who had to deal with these stupid boys' bullshit for 6 whole chapters. *raises a glass* 
> 
> (Next one is gonna be the final chapter/epilogue! :'D)


End file.
